


alone in this bed, house and head

by seroquel (smallredboy)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Episode: s01e10 Buffet Froid, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gaslighting, Gen, Hurt Will Graham, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Medical Abuse, Medical Trauma, OP's Wish Fulfillment, Running Away, Will Graham Has Encephalitis, Will Graham Has Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:14:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22193128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallredboy/pseuds/seroquel
Summary: Will realizes something is wrong about Hannibal's treatment. Things snowball from there.
Relationships: Will Graham & Abigail Hobbs
Comments: 10
Kudos: 76
Collections: Genprompt Bingo Round 17, Hurt/Comfort Bingo - Round 10, Trope Bingo: Round Fourteen





	alone in this bed, house and head

**Author's Note:**

> **trope bingo:** hurt/comfort  
>  **gen prompt bingo:** shadows / darkness  
>  **hurt/comfort bingo:** therapy
> 
> i was in the process of watching hannibal, got to s1e10 and got so deeply triggered by the start of the encephalitis arc that i wrote this in like, an hour or so. i don't know if i'll keep watching hannibal, but i still felt the need to write this out.
> 
> enjoy.

He's not sure why he has the feeling everyone is lying to him. 

He just  _ knows _ , deep down, that he shouldn't believe Hannibal. Like he's developed a sixth sense all while he slowly loses his mind. He's mentally ill. He's mentally ill. He has… he has a mental illness. He's psychotic. He's dissociating. He's losing time. He's hallucinating. He's going crazy and he's still working for Jack even though he's more and more unstable every day that passes. 

_ Jack doesn't care, as long as he gets results, _ Hannibal had told him.  _ But you're my friend, and my patient. I want the best for you. _

So therapy it was. Therapy, and more therapy, and light therapy, and all the therapies there seemed to exist. But nothing helped. It didn't make sense. Hannibal had been  _ very _ strongly against anti-psychotics too, and he didn't know why. Why couldn't he just medicate him? Wouldn't that fix it, at least partially? Why wouldn't he give him medication so he would feel at least, at  _ least _ a little bit better?

He decides to get a second opinion. He finds a neurologist in Baltimore as far removed from Hannibal as possible. He gets the brain scans, the blood tests, he gets  _ everything _ . And he is told that everything he has been told for the past month or so has been a lie.

"You have encephalitis," the neurologist tells him, showing him the brain scan. "A pretty severe case of it, in fact."

"But—" He swallows. "The neurologist I saw before you, he showed me… he showed me a brain scan. My brain scan. And nothing was wrong. They told me nothing was wrong."

His head is pounding. He feels like he's about to explode. There  _ was _ something wrong, there  _ was _ something wrong in his brain scan and Hannibal and the neurologist lied to him about it and told him it must be because he's fucking insane.

"That's… malpractice," the neurologist says, studying him, how freaked out he is. "A month ago you definitely still had it as you do now. What was the name of the doctor you saw?"

"Uh." He can't think about the consequences; it's like ratting them out. It  _ is _ ratting them out. "Donald Sutcliffe and, uh, my psychiatrist referred me to him."

"What's your psychiatrist's name?"

"Hannibal Lecter," he blurts out, before he can think better of it.

The neurologist's face shifts. "Ah. You could sue."

"I don't want to sue," he says. "I want to get away from here as fast as possible. They've convinced me I was going crazy when I just— when I just have encephalitis and I—" He swallows a sob. He can't cry, as much as he'd like to break down right here and right now. "What's… what's the treatment?"

"Depends on what strain it is. Your blood test will confirm it."

"When will the blood test be done?" he asks, desperate.

"In twenty-four hours. Try to avoid Dr. Lecter."

"Oh trust me," Will says, grabbing his jacket. "I will. Could you um, print the results? Please?"

"Of course, Mr. Graham," he says. "If you want to take this to court, I know plenty of good lawyers."

"Thank you." 

He takes the papers, and he flees out of the neurologist's office, his head spinning.

He doesn't exactly remember how and when, but he ends up in front of the door to Hannibal's office. He should avoid him. He really, really should avoid him. The mere thought of him making him trust him again makes him see red. He can't trust Hannibal— how could have he ever trust Hannibal? He turns around and leaves to his car, drives back to Virginia, to his place.

He receives a call from Hannibal's number. He accepts it, but keeps quiet.

"I received a call from a neurologist in the outskirts of Baltimore. I think you should come talk with me about this, Will."

"I will  _ not _ talk to you, Hannibal," he spits out. " You— you and Sutcliffe—  _ gaslit _ me into thinking I was going insane!"

"The fact you have encephalitis doesn't deny the fact you are psychotic, Will. Most cases of it do not show those symptoms. It could be a red herring."

"Shut up," he growls. "I'm going to— I'm going to get Abigail, and you won't ever hear from me again. I'm quitting, and you're never going to lay your hands on me as a lab rat ever fucking again."

"Will, you're not thinking straight."

"No, I'm not! Because you manipulated me into thinking I was going insane! I'm not going insane! I  _ won't _ be hallucinating anymore when I get the treatment! You did this to me.  _ You're _ fucking insane."

He hangs up, and he throws up afterward, his head spinning. He doesn't know what to do; he knows, in theory, but what if he can't leave with Abigail? What if he can't recover? What if ever sitting down at a psychiatrist's office makes him feel sick to his stomach?

* * *

"I'm quitting," he tells Jack the next day.

Jack blinks. "May I ask why?"

"I have encephalitis. Hannibal lied to me and told me my brain scan showed nothing unusual. He gaslit me. I don't want to be in the same city as him. And this job will only make my symptoms worse as I recover. So I'm quitting." Jack stares at him, and he sighs. "Look, I'll work at a boatyard again, something, I don't care. But Hannibal Lecter did unspeakable things to me." That makes it sound far worse than it actually is. Or is it that bad? What if he doesn't remember that Hannibal—? "I'm not working here or anywhere near the FBI any time soon."

"Oh-kay," Jack says, albeit awkwardly. "Good luck with the boatyards."

"Oh, and fuck you too," he says, rather suddenly.

"Agent—"

"I'm not an agent anymore," he says. "I can say whatever I want. You pushed me too hard. You  _ knew _ I was having trouble, that I was 'unstable', that I couldn't take the job, but you only care about having a good profiler in the team. I think that's pretty damn terrible."

He leaves. It feels good to get it all out of his system.

He gets calls, of course he does. From Hannibal and from Jack, but he only cares about going to the neurologist's office, getting his prescription and getting his medication. He starts taking it, he slowly starts feeling better.

He stays at his place, for the most part. He looks at his dogs and he wonders if he should leave them at a shelter. The thought hurts, but he has to let go to be able to really leave. 

* * *

"Abigail," he says. "I need to talk to you."

Abigail looks up at him. "Of course."

"You need to come with me." He swallows. "You can keep telling your story to Freddie Lounds all you want, but by email or something because— because Hannibal will manipulate you. He… did  _ something _ to me, Abigail, and we need to get away from him."

She looks terrified, for a second. "Did he—?"

"No… not that I know of." The fact he doesn't know makes him terrified. He's never felt sore, never had his hips bruised, anything. But he's sure Hannibal is more careful than that. He looks at her. "I'm going to be honest with you. Completely honest. And you'll understand why we need to leave."

And he is completely honest with her. He tells her everything, all the things that happened between Hannibal and him that he has recollection of. The fact there might be things he's unwittingly leaving out terrifies him, but that's for later. That's for later.

"Oh God," she says. "I'm so sorry, Will. I— I can't believe he would do this to you."

He smiles at her weakly. "Yeah, I can't believe he would do this to me either."

"Where do you plan to go to?"

"I don't know," he admits. "But… as far away from here as possible. California, maybe?"

He's aware that Hannibal could easily track his steps, where he plans to go, where he'll end up at. But there's a certain safety on the possibility that he'll lose interest, or that he just won't and that he'll have as much distance as possible between them.

"California sounds good," she nods. "Los Angeles, all that."

He laughs. "No, something a little less glamorous than LA, probably."

* * *

His nightmares worsen, but he tries his best to keep it together. He gives all his dogs to the local shelter, apologizes to them profusely as he does so, and tries really hard not to cry over it. He fails at that.

Next, he sells all the furniture, everything in his house, and then sells it cheap to some man with no link to Hannibal Lecter (he knows, he's checked that he's not involved in any of this. He knows it's ridiculous, but he has to be sure. He needs to be sure.)

And then, all that's left of his life beforehand is his car and Abigail.

"The trip is long," he says. "And not completely rational. We probably would be safe not that far away from him."

"I'd prefer to be as far away from him as possible," she says. "I know you know about, um. Nicholas. But he agreed to dispose of the body because, well. He's killed before."

"He did kill someone," he says. "But it was in self-defense, as you did. Although—"

"No," she cuts him off. "It really felt like he had  _ killed _ someone. Killed them in cold blood. He agreed to keep  _ our _ secrets."

Will feels a shiver go through his spine, but he ignores it. He has his surrogate daughter with him, and they're going to California, and he'll be safe from the monster he once knew as Hannibal Lecter.

But he can't help but think, with that revelation, that maybe, just maybe, he'll be the next of Hannibal's victims, if it is true that he's killed in cold blood.

* * *

"Are you okay, Will?" Abigail asks, hovering over him.

"I've been better," he says, sweating profusely.

His nightmares have become more and more vivid. Almost like memories. Hannibal grabbing him, telling him that this is just part of the process, Hannibal's voice still even although he's  _ dirtying _ him inside out. Going back to what he was dreaming about makes him nauseous, so he tries to stop thinking about it, keeping a hand near his mouth, always waiting for his body to let bile out.

Is his brain just playing on his paranoia? Or is his brain letting him in on what he repressed?

"I'll just take some sleeping pills, Abigail," he says. "Sorry for waking you up."

"It's okay," she tells him. "I get nightmares too, I get it. But we're away from all of that now."

He shudders. "Yeah, we're away from all of that now."

He hopes so. He really does hope so.


End file.
